


but not with years

by niqaeli



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: Consent Issues, Drug Use, M/M, post-Siege 2 speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-08
Updated: 2005-05-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:49:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niqaeli/pseuds/niqaeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atlantis is saved.  It wasn't easy.  People cope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but not with years

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saeva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeva/gifts).



_My hair is gray, but not with years,  
  Nor grew it white   
  In a single night,   
As men’s have grown from sudden fears;   
My limbs are bow’d, though not with toil,  
But rusted with a vile repose,  
For they have been a dungeon’s spoil_

_\--excerpted from[The Prisoner of Chillon](http://www.bartleby.com/41/479.html), Lord Byron_

 

The "I'm not dead! _We're_ not dead!" party had gone pretty well. The Athosian mead had been very popular as had Zelenka's moonshine. John had managed to snag a couple bottles of both for his own stock early on, though. He'd pointed out, quite reasonably, that he'd just saved everyone's asses and had earned some free booze. Zelenka had shrugged and handed over two bottles with a warning. _I warn, Major, it is quite strong. Don't come crying to me when you get alcohol poisoning._ Halling had done much the same—though he was a little more roundabout in his warning.

It was about three in the morning, Atlantis time, which meant the party had pretty much died. There were a couple small conversation groups still going, mostly made of people who'd abstained from the various available substances—someone had managed to grow some pot, and Weir wasn't inclined to fight a war on drugs she thought was pretty stupid back on Earth, so it had also been available, as had the chocolate and coffee that some very smart person back at the SGC had thought to send along with Everett and his men.

So with the party pretty much dead, John had gone back to his room to get better acquainted still with Halling's mead. It had been a fucking hard couple of days, he was entitled to a night of stupidity. He hadn't expected Rodney to follow him, or to open his door unannounced, or to loom over him where he sat on his bed and deck him, sending him sprawling onto his back.

He stared up at Rodney glassily and vaguely contemplated responding. But 'what was that for' was too banal for words and he probably didn't deserve a return punch. Not that he'd have the coordination for it anyway.

"It's good to see you too, Rodney," he said, instead, waving his bottle in a friendly gesture. "Nice of you to drop by," he added, pouring fuel on the fire.

Rodney's jaw tightened convulsively. "You son of a bitch," he said, and planted a knee between John's legs, and leaned forward. He looked like he was going to bring an elbow up to choke John. "You knew I'd have to be the one to follow you," he said, nearly conversational. "You fucking knew. Beckett is useless except for flying to the mainland."

John couldn't exactly refute that so he shrugged mutely, as Rodney grabbed him by the chin and held him looking hard into his eyes.

John twitched slightly, wishing his dick would shut up and go away, but it didn't. It seemed to think Rodney looking fairly damn threatening and angry at him was the greatest thing _ever_.

And, somehow, Rodney knew. Rodney made an expression that was almost like a smile except for the part where it was pleasant and reassuring, and dropped John's face to push John's shirt up, over his shoulders. He left it around John's wrists and brought his knee up to John's crotch as he walked forward onto the bed. John twitched, a little helplessly, at the contact, and tried desperately not to hump Rodney's knee. He didn't entirely succeed.

Nor did he quite manage to contain his whine when the pressure lifted—but Rodney's hands were there, undoing his jeans and pulling down his briefs. The pressure wasn't coming back, though, and when he tried to get his hands free of his shirt, Rodney caught him and leaned down enough that John thought he might have bruises on his wrists in the morning. He tried to pretend that wasn't an incredible turn-on.

Rodney shifted his weight to one hand, still pinning John, and used his free hand to trace John's jawline and follow it down his neck before stopping on John's shoulder, where he let his weight shove John farther into the bed.

John saw it coming but still wasn't prepared for the kiss, which was angry, fierce, and nothing at all romantic or reassuring. His hips twitched involuntarily as he gasped slightly and Rodney's tongue pressed in, tasting of moonshine, ravaging him like some damned damsel in distress in a bodice-ripper. Which was _not_ a turn-on and never mind what his hips were saying about the matter.

And never mind the fact that, a few moments later, he was gasping and begging, when Rodney's hand moved from his shoulder down to his cock and gave it a couple experimental jerks. He twisted under Rodney's grip and whimpered when Rodney clawed into his wrists to hold him still, leaving marks that _would_ bruise. John twitched helplessly at that thought, and then he was coming.

Rodney looked at the mess on his hand intently and John was too out of it protest when Rodney let go of his wrists to roll him over and tug his pants down past his ass. And he was just too drunk to care when Rodney's finger started stretching and pushing its way in. He was drunk enough on mead and sucker punch and adrenaline and anger and regret and orgasm that he just didn't care. By the time he came down off his own high enough that his head cleared just a little, Rodney had worked his way up to three fingers and was digging in and his hips were twitching again, hoping to get Rodney to hit that sweet spot.

John buried his face in the comforter and strangled the moan, half mindless lust and half hating at Rodney for this, for coming at him when he was drunk enough to want this, to want _this_... and Rodney shoved his way in, hands on John's hips, and it wasn't gentle, though he did pause a couple times to let John unclench, to relax.

It wasn't the first time, and it wouldn't be the last, and John knew it was written all over his skin bright as neon and Rodney was writing new chapters. Earth was far away, and his father was farther still, years in the past, and he wanted to hit Rodney and scream at them all at the same time. _You have no right, you have no claim_... but they did.

But so did Rodney. And he was drunk enough.

And it made him hate them all.

Rodney was moving now, rough and without much concern, his breath coming in pants. But he did lay his hand on John's neck in a way that was almost gentle, considering. John closed his eyes against the moisture behind them and let his hands fist around the comforter and screamed into it quietly, most definitely not sobbing.

Rodney whined when he came, which somehow just wasn't surprising. He grunted softly as he slid out, and rolled off to lie on his back beside John.

"Those were the three most miserable days of my life," Rodney said quietly. "And the Pegasus Galaxy had made astounding inroads on that front already."

John didn't open his eyes, didn't try to speak. He wasn't sure he trusted what would come out.

He could feel Rodney's look anyway—not glaring anymore, just tired. Maybe as bone-tired as John felt.

"It wasn't supposed to turn out like this," he found himself saying, despite his best intentions.

Rodney shook the bed with soft laughter. John thought he could hear the reedy thread of hysterics in there, and cracked an eyelid, but Rodney got it under control.

"It never does," Rodney said.


End file.
